


it's a revolution, I suppose

by HopeStoryteller



Category: Elder Scrolls Online
Genre: (specifically Naemon), (this isn't particularly relevant to the story but I assure you he is), ...let's just be safe, Alternate Universe, Ayrenn is a force of chaos, Character Death Fix, Everyone Is Gay, F/M, Gift Fic, I mean... have you met her, M/M, NPC Vestige, Saving the World, Title from an Imagine Dragons Song, Trans Male Character, could be aaanyone, do I need to, hero of the Dominion questline is mentioned but never present, if it happened before the story begins, is because she's tied up with Politics, tag it with major character death, the only reason she doesn't singlehandedly solve every one of her problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:56:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29821125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeStoryteller/pseuds/HopeStoryteller
Summary: Wasting eternally away in Coldharbour, Prince Naemon gets a chance of escape and a second chance at life. He takes them both.He finds alotmore than he expected, in his efforts to save the world.
Relationships: Razum-dar/Naemon, Sai Sahan/Lyris Titanborn
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	it's a revolution, I suppose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thalmor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thalmor/gifts).



Coldharbour is cold. This shouldn’t have come as a surprise, in retrospect, and Naemon supposes it doesn’t, really, but there is  _ cold _ and there is the bitter chill of Coldharbour, the chill that he suspects would make him shiver and dig right down to the bone regardless of how many layers he wore to keep it out. This chill is—deeper, somehow. Quieter, lonelier.

He couldn’t hate it more. 

But what, exactly, can he  _ do? _ What can he do besides wait, and detach himself from his new reality, and think of better things. Different things, at least, though few of his happy memories now remain uncolored with grief. What happiness he had with Estre pales in comparison to what she’d thought, what she did. The good times he’d had with his sister, in a much simpler time before, merely hurt now.

It is his fault that they hurt now, and that makes them hurt more. He wonders, briefly and bitterly, if they hurt as much for her. He doubts they do. He doubts they—

Noise, outside. The clash of steel against steel, and a shout that isn’t one of pain, but instead a war cry. That’s... new. Slowly, laboriously, Naemon manages to push himself to his feet. He stumbles over to the door. Locked, of course, but he’s there in time for the single tallest human he’s ever seen to come over.

Stars and Aedra above, she’s taller than most  _ Altmer _ . That’s moderately terrifying.

“Hey, you’re looking more alive than most around here,” she says in a  _ far _ more cheerful tone than anyone in Coldharbour has any right to have. “Can you fight?”

“If it means not wasting away here?” Naemon nods firmly. “I don’t suppose you have a key?”

“Oh, I have something  _ far _ better. Stand back!”

Naemon is barely out of the way before she swings her  _ massive _ battleaxe into the door’s bars, splintering them and providing a way out. She hefts her battleaxe over her shoulder, and extends a hand. Naemon does not take it, but he does emerge from his cell, blinking more than he’d like. Eventually she puts her hand away and says, “I am Lyris Titanborn. What do you say to fighting our way out of this horrible place, once and for all?”

“Naemon,” he says warily, carefully gauging her reaction. “Just… just Naemon.” If there is a reaction to his name, she hides it extremely well. And there wouldn’t be a reaction, to all but a select few—Ayrenn would have kept news of his  _ betrayal _ under wraps.

“Well met, just Naemon. What say you?”

His eyes scan the room, and he lifts a sword from a dead Daedra. His mouth curves into a thin line that cannot quite be called a smile, but is something approaching it. “Do I look like I have something better to do?”

Lyris considers this seriously, then shrugs and says, “Not particularly.”

* * *

“So you are?” His sister’s agent, the cat who  _ has _ to recognize him, asks. He’s crouched up atop a storm-battered crate, and he  _ has _ to know, he  _ cannot _ be  _ that _ dumb even if Naemon is rather certain he must be somewhat, to pull  _ him _ out of the churning waters and not drop him right back in. Unless he genuinely hasn’t recognized him, somehow, which is ridiculous but… possible, he supposes.

_ Naemon _ is what he starts to say, because it’s  _ his godsdamned name _ . But on the exceedingly slim chance that he hasn’t been recognized, he isn’t about to out himself as the prince who tried to…

_ Estre _ is his next thought, except that won’t work either, because Estre is 1) dead, 2) more of a traitor than he ever thought he could be, and 3) wrong gender, no thank you. Also 4) another name the cat would recognize, so definitely out.

_ Ayrenn _ won’t work either for obvious reasons, but by now the irritatingly perceptive cat is staring at him with a raised eyebrow. Two, actually, and a tail flicking amusedly behind him.

“Nae-stre-renn?” The cat repeats dubiously.

“Nae-str-en,” Naemon says, more confidently this time. “Nastren. It’s my name. Got a problem with it?”

“Well, besides the fact that you’re a  _ very bad liar, _ no, not really.”

Naemon sputters indignantly. “Oh, really. And _ how _ do you know I’m lying?”

It’s obvious, painfully so, that the cat recognizes him and has from the beginning. But he hasn’t been willing to admit it. Maybe now he will.

He does not. Instead, he says, “You’re not meeting this one’s eyes, you’re fidgeting  _ far _ more than you were before you  _ started _ lying,  _ and _ your voice got higher. All tell-tale signs alone. Together? You’re lying.”

“Takes one to know one.”

The eyebrows go even higher. The cat (whose name, Naemon realizes, he can’t actually recall) places a hand against his heart in mock indignation. It occurs to Naemon, belatedly, that his eyebrows look even fluffier than the rest of him. He doesn’t wonder what they feel like. 

“A liar? Please. This one is but a simple Khajiit who happened to be in the right place at the right time, and would rather not see Khenarthi’s Roost be destroyed by the forces of the Sea Elves.”

“Simple Khajiit. Of  _ course. _ What’s your name, then?

“Razum-dar,” the cat with unreasonably fluffy eyebrows says innocently. “Raz doubts you’ve heard it before. Unless you have?”

_ Razum-dar. _ He knows, he  _ has _ to know and he has to know Naemon knows he knows. But if— _ somehow _ —he doesn’t…

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Naemon says tightly.

Razum-dar doesn’t comment on the even more pitiful lie. Instead, he says, “Then perhaps you can help this one with something. But first, tell Raz: this Molag Bal business is certainly important, but not the sort of thing one should go yelling about when wishing to avoid unnecessary attention, yes?”

“Yes,” Naemon agrees. Reluctantly.  _ Very _ reluctantly.

“Then, what will you tell anyone  _ else _ who asks you where you came from?”

“I’m a… Dominion soldier. Shipwrecked in the storm.”

It’s a pathetic lie. It’s even  _ more _ obvious as a lie, and yet Razum-dar inexplicably, annoyingly  _ nods. _ “Good. You’re getting the hang of this, wet one.”

_ “Wet one?” _

Save for the tiniest of smiles, Razum-dar ignores him. “Now let’s see what two completely normal people can do to stop Khenarthi’s Roost from being destroyed by angry Maormer… again. Personally, Raz thought the first two times were bad enough.”

“The first  _ two?” _ Naemon only heard about one.

Razum-dar holds up a hand and counts off on furry fingers. “The tempest that shipwrecked half the Dominion fleet, and the storm atronach they were trying to make explode and wipe Khenarthi’s Roost off the map entirely.”

Okay. Naemon heard about the first one from Pelidil (who he is very resolutely not going to think about anymore.) The second... that’s news to him.

Well. Naemon didn’t come crawling back from death to be murdered again. He sighs and says, already resigned, “Where do we start?”

* * *

Back on Auridon, at long last. Naemon takes a moment to breathe in the fresh air of Vulkhel Guard, air he’d long since given up on ever breathing again. The Prophet—as Naemon knows him, although he  _ sincerely doubts _ that he has truly forgotten his true name—has apparently taken up residence in a cave further down the beach, which should be simple to get to.

It  _ would _ be simple, were it not for a moderately annoying plus one. Naemon  _ knows _ Razum-dar knows who he is. He  _ knows _ that he’s watching him on Ayrenn’s orders—and if not, then not  _ yet, _ simply for lack of an opportunity to report back. But he won’t report back. He won’t ever leave  _ Nastren _ alone, because he simply doesn’t trust Naemon, and why would he?

But Naemon can work with this. If Razum-dar continues to pretend he’s sticking around for fun and/or adventure, then he’ll just have to help with the whole  _ world-ending _ thing, and maybe Naemon will have a chance in Oblivion of surviving said entire world-ending thing with another blade at his back.

“So,” Naemon says conversationally. “Razum-dar.”

Sitting on the edge of the dock, tail flicking back and forth, back turned—though Naemon knows  _ perfectly _ well that he wouldn’t get far if he tried to run, and so he doesn’t—Razum-dar says, “Hmm? This one has told you, you can call Khajiit Raz.”

“No, thank you,” Naemon mutters significantly less conversationally. “Say. You remember what I told you on Khenarthi’s Roost about Molag Bal?”

“And the world ending, yes.” Raz’s tail has stopped flicking. “Raz, for one, would prefer the world  _ not _ end.”

“I think most people would. I… am going to find the old man I escaped Coldharbour with. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to help?”

Razum-dar actually turns to look at him, and Naemon thinks he knows why. He is, after all, being put in a rather delicate position. No sane person would  _ want _ to help, after all. But if he knows who Naemon is—and how could he  _ not— _ he wouldn’t be willing to let Naemon out of his sight, not after what he did. So, if he knows—and he  _ has _ to know—he’ll make some excuse.

“Khajiit has nothing better to do,” Raz says wryly, and leaps to his feet in one quick, skillful motion. “Why  _ not _ help save the world?”

“Well,  _ I _ have to, because a Daedra and the unequivocally worst one at that currently has my soul,” Naemon says equally wryly. “You don’t have anything at stake, certainly nothing at that level.”

“Hmm. True. But you helped Raz when you did not have to—”

“I  _ didn’t?” _

“Of course not? You  _ could _ have walked away at any time, perhaps hidden yourself away somewhere and waited for the invasion to blow over. Raz would like to think he could have handled it without you.” Razum-dar smiles. Naemon genuinely is not sure what to make of it. “But, you didn’t. And so Raz thinks he will help you in return, at least for a time.”

“Ah.” Naemon isn’t sure what to make of that, either. “Thank you, Razum— _ Raz.” _

The smile grows. “Where to, Nastren?” 

He  _ has _ to know. No one in his sister’s Eyes, least of all their unofficial yet unambiguous leader, could possibly be  _ this thick. _ And yet, for a brief moment, Naemon entertains the possibility that he doesn’t. That they could, genuinely, be friends.

(He thinks he’d like that.)

“Most likely,” Naemon says, “this way. He told me—I am  _ entirely unsure _ as to how, save that it involved some kind of magical projection you apparently couldn’t see—that he was in a cave somewhere close to a beach, close to where I was. There cannot be that many caves near the beach near Vulkhel Guard.”

There are, in fact, that many caves. But they find it eventually. And while Naemon isn’t foolish enough to believe that the Prophet doesn’t  _ know _ he brought… not quite a friend, the Prophet certainly doesn’t complain. More importantly, when he  _ does _ finally acknowledge Raz, he does so without saying the name Naemon had given him. 

The right name, for this situation. Nastren, not Naemon. The wrong name, in general, and the mournful look the Prophet gives him when Raz isn’t looking makes him wonder just how much he knows.

He’s definitely hiding something.  _ Everyone _ is hiding something. Naemon supposes it’s too much to hope that he’s hiding something relatively harmless like being the former president of the Cyrodillic Cupcake-Baking Association.

* * *

It is only out of sheer dumb luck and tackling Lyris out of the way of a particular angry Daedra that Naemon has the opportunity to tell her what to call him—and what  _ not _ to call him—before she outs him in front of Raz. Naemon is relieved for approximately two seconds, right before the other member of the rescue team is hit roughly into the wall by that same angry Daedra and crumples.

Then he sees red.

(Raz is fine, by the time they’re all safely out of Coldharbour and back in the Harborage. A little sore, but fine, and looking at Naemon a little differently. Naemon does not, however, get the chance to ask about it before he and Lyris are sent right back into Coldharbour to rescue Abnur Tharn.)

* * *

Naemon does not like Abnur Tharn. He likes Varen Aquilarios, or as he’d been calling himself, the  _ Prophet, _ even less. He  _ very much _ dislikes being lied to, especially about things that one would think are important enough to tell the truth on. Like… oh, perhaps the fact that the  _ Prophet _ was  _ fully responsible for the Planemeld and therefore the world ending sooner rather than later? _

Of course there is still more to do. And of course he is still going to do it, because  _ someone _ has to and at this point he isn’t sure he trusts the Prophet to do it without him. The fact that Molag Bal still has his soul isn’t exactly a disincentive, either.

He just needs a few minutes. And so here he is, seated on the edge of the sand on the beach, watching the tide lap ever closer and closer and staring out into the ocean beyond.

There’s footsteps behind him. Almost too light to hear, and quite deliberate—almost as if their owner is purposefully stepping just loud enough for him to hear.

“Hello, Raz,” Naemon greets without looking.

The footsteps stop. And then their owner—who is, in fact, Raz—takes a cross-legged seat beside them. “Hello, Nastren.”

The name they both know isn’t Naemon’s comes out of Raz’s mouth far easier than it used to. Naemon smiles, despite himself, and looks at Raz. “You can stop pretending, you know.”

Raz looks back at him, and meets his eyes. Slowly and quite deliberately, he says, “Khajiit does not know what you’re talking about.”

And  _ that— _ that is the most bold-faced lie Naemon has ever heard from him. It’s even worse given that Naemon will never refute it, not while there is a chance in Oblivion that Raz genuinely does  _ not _ know what he’s talking about. There’s no chance that he doesn’t know. None.

But Naemon still doesn’t say what he should, because a thought occurs to him. Perhaps Raz doesn’t mind this… whatever it is, either. Perhaps, by pretending that he really  _ is _ the completely unsuspicious adventurer Nastren, they really can be friends. At least for a little while.

“Very well,” Naemon agrees, and looks back out at the sea. “Do you think we stand a chance?”

“At…”

“At this. At  _ saving _ all this.” He sweeps an arm around at Auridon behind them. “I’m not even sure I wish to do this, anymore. But if I don’t, who  _ will?” _

Raz nods slowly. He eventually says, “Raz will stay with you until the end, whatever you choose. Khajiit has come this far—and this one sees through the things he starts.”

Naemon knows, perfectly well, that this is just an excuse to keep an eye on him. To make sure he doesn’t ever get the chance to make an attempt on Ayrenn’s life again (or, gods forbid,  _ succeed. _ ) If it wasn’t for that, he would be incredibly touched.

Against his better judgment, he still  _ is _ incredibly touched. 

“Thank you,” Naemon says, quietly. He means it.

* * *

Rescuing Sai Sahan is an experience in itself, though he at least maintains a refreshing level of candor. Any favorable first impressions Naemon has of him, however, tend to fall by the wayside—or at least take some  _ serious _ hits—after the second important thing hidden from the world’s most powerful necromancer in a  _ tomb. _

And then Mannimarco himself appears to them—for the first time, in a form Naemon can actually  _ fight. _ He waxes poetic about how  _ all _ the great leaders of Tamriel will bow to him, conjures up images of many Naemon doesn’t recognize on sight—and one he does.

The sight of  _ Ayrenn _ bowing to  _ Mannimarco _ , even as nothing more than a shade, makes Naemon laugh out loud from how  _ impossible _ it would be. Ayrenn bows to no one. She never has, and even if her attempts at conquest fail in the worst possible way, she never will. She would die before bowing to anyone, never mind someone like Mannimarco.

And so when Naemon’s sword finds Mannimarco’s gut, he leaves it there, grabbing Mannimarco by the collar of his ridiculously opulent robe and dragging him back up to his feet.

“Ayrenn bows to  _ no one,” _ Naemon hisses under his breath as the necromancer chokes. “And  _ I _ will never bow to  _ you.” _

It is quite obvious, later, that Mannimarco knows who he is. Fortunately for the sake of Naemon’s tenuously held-together cover identity, Mannimarco is whisked into Coldharbour to be tortured forever by Molag Bal before he can expose him. Or become the new Molag Bal, for that matter, which is likely far more important.

* * *

“We must launch an assault on Coldharbour,” the Prophet—Varen Aquilarios—says, and if Naemon was drinking anything he  _ would _ have spit it out. As it is, he barely avoids choking on his own spit.

“I’m sorry,” Naemon says. “I must have misheard you. I thought you said we must launch an assault on  _ Coldharbour.” _

“I am afraid you did not mishear me, Nastren.”

The absolute last thing Naemon wants to do is go back to Coldharbour now, even though he knows—there won’t be any stopping the Planemeld from Tamriel’s side of things, only delaying it.

“With all due respect,” Raz cuts in suddenly, “Khajiit would like to know with what army you intend to launch this assault. Six people, no matter how capable—effectively five people, no offense—”

“None taken,” Varen says mildly.

“—is  _ not _ going to be enough to take on hordes of angry Daedra. So please tell Raz, what is your plan for doing this  _ without _ dying in the process?”

Sai and Lyris exchange uneasy looks. Abnur, leaning against the wall as far away from Sai and Lyris as he can get, makes no secret of rolling his eyes. Whatever this plan is, it is  _ not _ going to be a good one. Naemon can’t wait.

“By now,” Varen says, “the Planemeld is no secret. It was not one already—a particular and recently penned song comes to mind—but I do not doubt that each of the three alliances fighting over Tamriel have their own plans for preventing the worst. Should we be able to unify these plans, and combine them with our own—” 

“I  _ told _ you it was a foolish idea at best,” Abnur mutters darkly. “And at worst… I believe I don’t have to say it.”

“Well, do  _ you _ have a better idea, Tharn?” Lyris fires at him.

Abnur’s notable lack of a retort proves he most certainly does  _ not _ have a better idea.

“This one can secure the aid of Queen Ayrenn,” Raz says after a moment. All eyes go to him. Naemon remembers, after a couple seconds, to look surprised.

“You  _ what,” _ Lyris blurts. “When were you going to mention this?”

Raz’s only acknowledgment of her question is a thin smile. “Given that the fate of the entire world is at stake, and everyone knows this, it may be possible to arrange a truce until the Planemeld is no longer nigh. Raz cannot speak for the other two alliances, however.”

“We can still  _ try,” _ Naemon says firmly.

* * *

It is entirely possible, given the thoughtful way Jorunn Skald-King of the Ebonheart Pact looked at him when he introduced himself as  _ Nastren, _ that Jorunn has a pretty good idea of who he really is. Naemon is almost certain, however, that High King Emeric knows  _ exactly _ who he is, and the only reason he agreed to a meeting on neutral ground concerning a truce was due to the presence of Sai Sahan, a hero of slightly greater renown.

Raz returns too before long, successful as well. Between Lyris and Abnur, the Fighters Guild and Mages Guild respectively have agreed to help mediate and keep the ceasefire from turning violent.

So far, so good, except Naemon can’t say he’s looking forward to seeing Ayrenn again after… what he did. What he tried to do, and what he would have done if her other agent hadn’t stopped him before he could. 

Even if she doesn’t know ahead of time, she’ll recognize him. And he isn’t stupid. He knows Raz knows, and he knows Raz will have informed Ayrenn of who the Vestige called Nastren really is. So the question isn’t whether Ayrenn will know at all.

It’s whether or not she’ll put the fate of the entire world over something he never should have even thought of—but he did. And he died for it. And now, somehow, he is back.

Naemon thinks, as he walks past various encampments and tents to the heart of Stirk, that it may be saying something that he is most afraid to face his own sister.

Then, of course, he regroups with Lyris and Sai—one neutral party tangentially connected to each alliance each. It will be easier to get anywhere with the leaders of said alliances that way, and more importantly, it will take some attention off of him, ‘Nastren.’

But, as Naemon steps through the stone arch after Lyris but before Sai, it is immediately obvious that whatever attention he evaded wasn’t anywhere near enough. Perhaps the fault is his, for looking to Ayrenn before either of the others—but he sees it in her eyes. Complete and utter  _ shock. _

Raz… didn’t tell her. But she  _ did _ recognize him.

* * *

“This war will not  _ matter _ if the Planemeld succeeds,” Naemon says firmly, finishing his spiel at last. “Do you realize what is at stake? Any of you? If you cannot put aside your differences for this, the only victor will be  _ Molag Bal. _ ”

“...I hate to admit it,” Jorunn admits grudgingly. “But he does have a point. Molag Bal is a greater threat than anything either of you could hope to bring against me. If I can receive assurance that neither of you will attack Pact lands…”

For a few moments, Naemon dares to hope that this might actually go well.

“I don’t know that he is, and I don’t know that is worth it at all,” Emeric mutters. “For one thing, that would require trusting the word of a snow barbarian and an adolescent female.”

_ Nevermind. _ Jorunn visibly bristles. Ayrenn, meanwhile, turns her attention from Naemon at last with a long-suffering sigh.

“Do you  _ really _ need to resort to petty name-calling in order to get your point across?” Ayrenn asks. “Or is that merely the only way you know how to do so?”

“It is  _ not,” _ Emeric says tersely. “Merely the only way the likes of  _ you two _ deserve.”

“High King Emeric,” Naemon says before the dangerous fire in his sister’s eyes can translate into something bad for everyone. “I asked you to attend this meeting in good faith, and you then agreed. Please. The entire  _ world _ is at stake.”

“Perhaps it is. Or, perhaps, this is all an elven trick. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your uncanny resemblance to the queen here.”

“What,” Jorunn says.

“Are you  _ serious,” _ Sai mutters under his breath. “High King—”

“It  _ is _ interesting,” Emeric continues, “that this  _ Nastren _ turned up around the time that the high elven prince Naemon ‘died,’ now, isn’t it?”

There’s that fire in Ayrenn’s eyes again, but she says nothing. Instead, she watches Naemon closely.

“I don’t think who I am should matter in this situation,” Naemon says carefully. “What  _ does _ matter is—” 

“Oh, but it  _ does. _ I will not risk the safety of  _ my _ people on the word of someone nearly as far from impartial as one can get!”

“With all due respect, King Emeric,” Ayrenn mutters, “the amount of which is decreasing with every minute I spend within earshot of you, my brother is dead and I will  _ not _ stand for his memory being disrespected.”

“Your elven tricks will  _ not _ fool me.”

“Nor I,” Jorunn says. “Now that you mention it, you and Nastren  _ do _ look alike.”

“Perhaps… we should take a short recess,” says the founder and leader of the Mages Guild, who  _ really _ should have stepped in before now. Naemon couldn't agree more.

* * *

“Nastren,” Lyris says warily.

“It’s Naemon,” Naemon mutters. “You knew that from the start. There is really no point in hiding it any longer.”

“...true. So Queen Ayrenn is…”

“My sister, yes. We… did not part on good terms.”

(He remembers a voice urging him not to let Ayrenn into the machine, to leap into it himself. He remembers seeing everything, and then nothing, and then his flesh cracking and twisting in ways it was never meant to. He remembers fighting, and then the sharpest pain he’d ever felt, and then nothing.)

“Well, if she is your sister, you should go talk to her,” Lyris offers. “I’m going to go work on Jorunn. Don’t envy Sai dealing with Emeric right now, that’s for damn sure. You seen Raz around lately?”

“He works for Ayrenn,” Naemon says.

Lyris stares at him for a long moment. “Okay, we absolutely don’t have the time to unpack all of that. Go talk to your sister. We’ll figure something out, one way or another. We have to.”

* * *

On the plus side, not one of the troops Ayrenn brought with her seems to recognize Naemon as, well, Naemon. They all address him as Nastren, the Vestige, a… hero, apparently.

They also are quick to direct him toward Ayrenn’s tent. He’s barely opened the flap when he hears his sister’s voice, low and angry, saying, “You couldn’t have  _ possibly _ told me ahead of time that the Vestige was  _ my brother?” _

Naemon steps inside. Raz is there. So is Ayrenn, with her back to him. He looks to Raz and says himself, “You didn’t tell her?”

Ayrenn whirls around, eyes wide, hands automatically going to her sword. She drops them, after a moment, and offers Naemon a curt nod.

(It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does that her first instinct is going for a weapon.)

“It must have slipped Raz’s mind,” Raz says with a careless shrug.

“You  _ cannot _ be serious,” Ayrenn says. “Raz—”

“You didn’t ask, in fairness to Khajiit.”

“I would hope that my brother being  _ back from the dead _ is the sort of thing that goes without asking.  _ Apparently _ it isn’t.”

“I’m right here,” Naemon says quietly. “Ayrenn, I’m—sorry. I didn’t…”

He doesn’t even know how to put it into words, what happened. He isn’t even sure what happened, except that one moment he would have willingly laid down his life for his foolish,  _ foolish _ sister, and the next he was trying to kill her.

“What’s done is done,” Ayrenn says in a similar tone. “I… am glad you are here, though I wish it were under better circumstances. And I wish  _ someone _ had given me a heads up.”

“In my defense, I’m just as surprised as you that he didn’t.”

Raz shrugs. “My bad.” He does not offer an explanation. At this point, Naemon knows better than to expect one, and clearly Ayrenn does too.

“I will attempt to arrange a ceasefire at the very least,” Ayrenn says at last. “But where those two are involved, I make no promises—particularly now that they know of our relation.”

Naemon smiles unhappily. “We’ll figure something out. I’ve come too far to give up now.”

Ayrenn nods, then hesitates. “What you said about Molag Bal… having your soul…”

“Not an exaggeration, I’m afraid. I suppose that is a large part of why I’ve put so much stake in this.  _ No one  _ deserves to be consigned to Coldharbour for even an instant. And if Molag Bal succeeds…  _ everyone _ will be for the rest of time itself.”

“Then I have to succeed, somehow.” Ayrenn bites her lip, then strides across the tent and—pulls him into a hug. “Yet you still have the more difficult task ahead of you.”

“Whatever you can manage will help with mine. Thank you.”

It is then, just as Naemon is thinking that maybe everything  _ will _ be alright, that something outside explodes.

* * *

As it turns out, fighting Daedra alongside others does tend to endear you to them. It is, of course, nowhere near enough to sway Emeric, and Jorunn ultimately errs on the side of caution as well, but it  _ is _ enough for both of them as well as Ayrenn to be receptive to an alternate, only moderately more suicidal plan: send the Guilds in.

Naemon supposes it is less suicidal than the pre-Alliances plan, but he still doesn’t particularly like it. He likes even less the fact that Ayrenn’s delegation was the first to leave Stirk—before, even, the Fighters Guild or the Mages Guild.

He didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye, and that… hurts quite a bit, actually. But Raz agreed to stay, and so before the time arrives, Naemon goes looking for him.

He finds him sitting on a rock, tail flicking back and forth behind him, looking out into the open ocean beyond the island.

“So… Raz,” Naemon says quietly, taking a seat on the same rock beside him. “You knew? The whole time?”

Raz laughs. “This one wouldn’t say the  _ whole _ time, though he was reasonably certain once you introduced yourself on Khenarthi’s Roost.”

“Yes… I suppose that was a less than believable alias. In my defense, I—”

“Panicked,” Raz says smugly.

“Perhaps a little. If you don’t mind me asking… when did you know for sure?”

“Do not get Raz wrong, he was  _ nearly _ certain for a very long time.” His tail touches the small of Naemon’s back. “But Khajiit did not know for sure until we confronted Mannimarco. You would not, Raz thinks, have been quite so angry if you did not have a personal stake in the matter.”

“Well… you weren’t wrong.” Naemon sighs. “Why didn’t you tell Ayrenn once you knew for sure?”

Raz looks at him. Smiles, and Naemon already knows what that  _ infuriatingly _ pretty Khajiit is going to say. “Slipped this one’s mind.”

Naemon audibly groans. “Fine, then. Keep your secrets. We’d better get a move on, before the invasion force leaves without us.”

“Raz will catch up. Allow this one a moment.”

He hesitates, but nods, and leaves. He’s almost back to the main group when someone in quite heavy armor collides with him from the side, and they both go down.

“Oops! Sorry, sorry, didn’t see you there,” says an oddly familiar voice. The tall figure wearing the armor of the Fighters Guild gets up, and offers him a hand. He takes it, if hesitantly.

“It’s alright,” Naemon says. “Do I… know you?”

Brilliant blue eyes glimmer with…  _ something _ behind their helmet. “Maybe. I’ll be seeing you in Coldharbour. Say, I don’t suppose you’ve seen the Khajiit calling himself Razum-dar around lately?”

“That way,” Naemon says, and points over his shoulder. The figure nods a thanks and runs off, their sword in its scabbard swinging wildly as they do.

* * *

It doesn’t occur to him who that was until he’s already been in Coldharbour for nearly a day. Getting to Coldharbour did  _ not _ go smoothly, mainly because no two people showed up in the same place, but the invasion force now has a base of operations inaccessible to any Daedra, and those who survived the first few minutes were much more likely to survive longer than that.

He hasn’t seen any sign of Raz, dead or alive. He hasn’t seen any sign of the warrior who is  _ probably _ his sister in disguise, either. But he has a job to do, and he needs to do it, and hopefully he’ll find them both on the way.

* * *

He finds Ayrenn, or more accurately Ayrenn finds him, on the way to what is looking more and more like a rescue mission for one of the indisputably most powerful mages in all of Tamriel. 

“Oh,  _ good,” _ she says once she sets eyes on him, and sheathes her sword. “I was beginning to worry you’d gotten lost somewhere.”

“We are literally in Coldharbour. Where else is there to go?” Naemon considers this, and adds, “If you seriously think I don’t know who you are—”

“Oh, I know you know.” She winks behind the helmet. “But if anyone asks… let’s say I’m… Rennaeda?”

“You  _ cannot _ be serious.”

“I’m not,” Ayrenn says, far more cheerfully than anyone in Coldharbour has any right to be. “As surprisingly pretty as that spur of the moment name turned out to be—”

“Nastren wasn’t  _ that _ bad.”

Ayrenn wisely does not comment on that, though she does stifle an amused snort. “The Fighters Guild knows me under a different name already. I think they’d notice if someone they didn’t know turned up claiming to be a member.”

“You were in the Fighters Guild?”

“Of course! I wasn’t  _ just _ riding bears, Naemon, what did you expect?”

Naemon, equally wisely, does not enlighten her to what he did expect. Instead, he looks at the towering ramparts ahead of them, and says, “We probably should rescue Vanus sooner rather than later.”

“Probably,” Ayrenn agrees. “I have every intention of  _ never _ letting him hear the end of this.”

* * *

Raz is waiting for them, when they return with one still rather full of himself master mage in tow. Naemon is, perhaps, more relieved to see him in one piece than he should be—although is there really any reason he shouldn’t be anymore?

Still, the Coldharbour assault force keeps growing, keeps moving. Until, at last, they are ready.

* * *

It has been so long—Naemon had nearly forgotten what having a soul was like. Now, it’s almost as if he’s escaped Coldharbour for the first time again. He can feel the wind in his hair, the sun on his skin—and he is  _ extremely _ aware of Raz standing beside him.

The other survivors of their group already went their separate ways. Lyris and Sai went off together, to further adventures and further utter refusal to acknowledge their  _ very mutual feelings. _ Abnur stuck around for approximately five minutes before declaring he was needed elsewhere and stepping through a portal to Aedra know where.

But Raz is still here. And Naemon can’t help but think—if he had never died, he never would have known Raz at all. He never would have known he was anything more than his sister’s yes-man, never would have bothered to look any deeper than the surface.

And that—Naemon thinks  _ that _ would have been a shame indeed.

“What now?” Naemon asks, partially to Raz but really to no one in particular.

“What now indeed.” Raz hums, considers this. “I know a certain queen would be happy to see you again, though that is not quite so pressing now that she knows you are alive, and Raz for one finds bureaucracy rather… distasteful.”

Naemon snorts. “On that, we can agree. I think… I’ll go back sooner or later, perhaps, to what life was like before. But not yet. I can do so much  _ more _ as  _ Nastren _ than I can as  _ Naemon. _ ” 

“Ahh, maybe consider a different alias. It is fairly well-established at this point that Nastren  _ is _ Naemon.”

“True. I’ll come up with something. Whatever it is… I think I understand, now, why Ayrenn spent so long abroad.”

The sea is big and beautiful, as it always is. It is warm here—a stark contrast to the enduring chill of Coldharbour. It is warm, and not all the warmth in Naemon’s heart comes from the temperature.

Raz means a lot to him, he thinks. It  _ would _ have been a shame if he never really met him. It is this thought that fuels him to be, for just a moment, slightly impulsive. It is this thought that gives him the courage to reach out, and take Raz’s hand in his own.

“If… you don’t have anything important to do, for Ayrenn,” Naemon continues, “I… think I’d like it very much, if you came with me.”

Raz does not pull away, and so Naemon dares to look at him. He’s smiling. It might be genuine. His eyebrows are still unreasonably fluffy, and Naemon still wonders, a little, if they feel as fluffy as they look.

“As much as it pains Raz to admit this, this one sincerely doubts the Dominion will fall if he takes some time off,” Raz says wryly. “And our lovely queen  _ has _ been trying to convince Khajiit to take some time off for… oh, about five years?”

Naemon stares at him. “Ayrenn has been queen for just over  _ three _ years.”

“Raz’s point exactly.” That irritating smile grows. “Where to?”

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday Cassius! may your Naemons be transed and your doggos be filled with thoughts of elevator music.


End file.
